Devious Minds (4 page)

“
M
otherfucker,” I yelled, bursting back through the club doors. All the patrons were gone, and it was just Snake, Nick, and Molly cleaning up. I sidled up to the bar and searched my bag. Before I pulled out my phone, a beer plopped down in front of me.

Nick stood behind it with a knowing smile. “Peters?” he asked, wiping out a row of bar glasses.

“Probably.” I took a sip.

No one cared I was underage. At least not while the bar was closed. I guess they were getting used to me. Even Molly warmed up a little.

“All my tires are missing.”

Nick shook his head and bit down on a laugh.

“It’s okay to laugh at me. I’d probably laugh if it happened to you.”

“That’s nice to know.”

As he turned to replace the glasses, I glanced down at his ass. It was perfect. When I raised my eyes, he was looking at me in the mirror behind the bar.

Crap, I’d been caught.

“You a lesbian, Sydney?” His tone was cool, like he asked that question all the time.

Unfortunately, I created more work for him because I spat my sip of beer all over the bar top.

“What? Why would you ask that?”

There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian. I just wasn’t expecting that question from Nick.

He chuckled under his breath. “Peters said you were.”

“Peters would say I’m a she-male if he thought it could do some damage.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

I hesitated.
Is Nick a closet football fan? Is he a secret spy for Peters?

“No reason.” Rolling my finger along the rim of my glass, I expected a note to rise like it was Mom’s crystal. I made a mental note to pull a glass rim track. It would work nicely with a dull tune, kick drum, maybe over a tra—

“Good job tonight.” Nick’s voice cut through my creative process, which would have normally irritated me if he wasn’t so cute and his voice didn’t roll through my ears like velvet.

I felt a burn on my cheeks. “Thanks.”

“I especially liked the last one.” He leaned in close and looked to make sure Molly and Snake were out of earshot. “You’re too good for the SpaceRoom. I know a dozen other club owners who would claw their eyes out just for you to mix there.”

What I wanted to say was,
then I couldn’t see your beautiful face
. Instead, it came out like this. “SpaceRoom’s oaky.”

He furrowed his brows. “Oaky? Is that code for something?”

“Sorry, I meant
okay
. The SpaceRoom is just my speed right now. I’ve got a lot on my plate. You know with school and other stuff. Plus, I feel like I’m building a loyal fan base. Drunk Earl is here every Sunday. He breaks out of the nursing home just to dance.”

Earl was eighty-two and without fail, he arrived at ten and drank hot totties all night.

“Earl’s here because you’re cute.”

What? Instantly, blood rushed to my ears as I processed his words.

“Oh, you’re right. Couldn’t be the music.”

“Sorry, Sydney. I didn’t mean you weren’t talented. You are. Shit. I’m jealous. I just meant there’s other stuff people like about you. Stuff beyond Sinister.”

When I looked up, his throat was one long flame. He was embarrassed.

I did that.

Pride oozed from every pore on my body. I was about to celebrate—internally, of course—when I remembered my current sucky situation.

“Do you have that list back there? The one with the taxi information?” I glanced over to Snake. “I have to leave my truck here overnight. Don’t have it towed, okay?”

Snake grunted.

“I’ll take you home,” Nick said, wrapping plastic over a container of sliced fruit.

Alert the press. Bartender Nick just offered to take me home.
Nick was willingly allowing his unofficial, yet official, stalker to ride on his Harley.

“I can’t put my gear on your bike,” I said in a crushed voice.

“Who said I rode a bike? I have the black Camry out front.”

Shit. Shit. Double-shit.
I forgot the Harley only existed in Sydney’s fantasy world. A Camry was decidedly less cool. Oh God, here it came, the mystery of Bartender Nick would burn to ashes the more he told me about himself.

T
o keep it as enigmatic as possible, I said nothing on the car ride home. Nick also said nothing. It was perfect. I could go right on being delusional.

When we arrived at my dorm, Nick hopped out and helped me carry my gear.

My roommate Allison was pretending to read when I opened the door. I saw her blond head peek out through the window when we pulled up, and she didn’t read
Groove Music: The Art and Culture of the Hip Hop DJ
. That’s my book.

“Picking up a new hobby?” I asked, shaking my head at her.

Nick set down my mixer. I covered it with a towel and pushed it underneath my bed.

“Oh, just thought I’d get into the mind of Sinister,” she said, molesting Nick with her eyes. “Want to know all about my roomie, including her friends. Hi there. I’m Allison. Sydney and I are practically sisters.”

Allison was five feet nine with a willowy frame and light features. I’m five feet four with curves and wavy dark hair.

I snickered. “Yeah, can’t you see the resemblance, Nick? When I first met her, I was like, ‘Am I looking into a mirror?’ Then I had to pinch my reflection, and that’s how she got that mole on her face.”

Allison had a microscopic birthmark on her face. It wasn’t noticeable at all, but she complained and called attention to it all the time. Her face went red as she stroked her cheek.

“Could’ve fooled me. You’re both beautiful.”

Okay, now both Allison and I looked like we’d been in a tanning booth too long.

“See you Sunday?” He raised an eyebrow, then added, “DJ Sinister.”

I nodded as he gave me a borderline sexy smile and left the room.

Not two seconds passed before Allison attacked me like a tigress. “Who was that? And, oh my God, you’re such a slut bringing up my mole.” She examined her tiny mark in the mirror.

“Nick. He’s a bartender at SpaceRoom.” I flopped down on my twin bed and cursed under my breath. My truck has no tires. Whipping out my phone, I sent Jack a text.

Syd
:
Where are they, Dimebag?

Jack
:
What are you talking about?

Syd
:
My f’n tires.

Jack
:
I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can go to hell. As far as I’m concerned, I have no sister. I’m changing my phone number. Stay out of my life.

I had to laugh. Peters’s influence had reached a breaking point with Jack. No doubt Peters had been ranting about me all week, and now he’d turned Jack against me.

Syd
:
No can do, asshole. Like it or not, we’re in this together. Love you… Sweet dreams.

“So,” Allison said with an unnerving swagger in her tone. “As you know, I’m in the middle of rush.”

I groaned. Who didn’t know Allison was in the middle of rush? She’d announced it to everyone on the floor, in the cafeteria, and I’m pretty sure I heard her on a megaphone outside.

Pink and what I referred to as
white
, quickly corrected by Allison as
cream,
had invaded every inch of our living quarters for the past two weeks.

“So part of my ‘Kappa Delta Challenge’”—Yes, people, she did air quotes and squealed—“is the entertainment portion for an upcoming mixer.”

I waited for her to finish, but the word
entertainment
left a boulder in my chest.

She flipped on her stomach, dropped my book, and batted her freakishly long eyelashes.

“That move only works on boys,” I said, lying to face the ceiling. “Stupid boys.”

She laughed. It was supposed to come across as a smooth butter-her-up laugh, but it rang in my ears as a let’s-go-meet-Satan-down-the-hall laugh.

“Stop.” I held out a palm before she could ruin my Nick-related elation. “No.”

“Sydney,” she wailed. It came out long and groaning. “Please, please, please.”

“No.” I kicked off my shoes and turned on my side.

“Six hundred,” she said softly, like a seductress, into my ear. “Would six hundred Benjamins pique your interest?”

I faced her. “Yes, Allison, sixty thousand dollars would pique my interest. Sign me up.”

Her eyebrows furrowed and she grabbed her wallet. Pulling out a one-dollar bill, she stared down at the face. “Oh,” she said thoughtfully, “I meant would six hundred
Washingtons
do the trick?”

I closed my eyes and laughed. “No more hip-hop DJ books for you, sweetheart.”

“Come on, please. I know you’re good. I’ve heard those mixes you play while you’re getting dressed.” She sank down to her knees. It was a pathetic scene really. I wish you could’ve seen it. “I really want to be a Kappa Delta, and they are bitches… forcing my hand with this one. They want me to fail.”

I sat upright and stared down at this mess of a woman. “So you want to be a part of a group of
bitches
whose end goal is to see you
fail
?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

I thought back on my friends. I’d left them all behind to find jobs after community college. I didn’t really know anyone here yet, with the exception of Allison and Brian. Friends did favors, right?

“Just buy me a new set of tires and we’re even,” I said, promising to kick my own ass later.

Allison squealed, jumped up, and threw her stick-figure arms around me. “You’re the best. Can you play Jack Johnson? Because the girls really love that song about bananas and pancakes.”

I closed my eyes. “You want me to work Jack Johnson into a remix?”

“Even better, you can do that mix thing. It will be awesome.”

“
W
hat should I do with those tires?”

I slammed my locker shut and tore the towel from around my waist. We’d just had a rough practice, and everyone’s spirits were on edge. Coach double-drilled us, surprising us with a five o’clock practice in the morning.

Leaning against the cool metal locker, I let the wave of soreness take root in my muscles. “Toss them off a bridge,” I near-whispered, looking around for Jack. “I don’t know. Just get rid of them.”

Fernando frowned. When an offensive lineman comes at you with anything less than a smile, that’s trouble with a capital T.

“They’re good tires, Peters.” His voice was grave, as if we were discussing a major business transaction we could both lose our shirts on. “I mean, plenty of tread left in them. Winter ready.”

“You’re saying this like I should give a shit.” I slumped down on the wooden bench and yanked on my boxers. Fernando sank down beside me.

“They’re expensive. Almost a thousand bucks to replace them.”

“So sell them if you want.” I pulled on my shoes, delivering a pointed glare. “I don’t care.”

“I just feel bad,” he said quietly, lightly fingering the crucifix hanging from his neck.

Great. I forgot he was Catholic. Catholics always felt guilty.

“Don’t,” I snapped, irritated with this whole conversation. “She’s a bitch and she deserved it.”

“Why?”

He knew I wouldn’t answer that question.

I let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, put them in the doghouse garage. Cover them up with a blanket, though.” I didn’t need Jack running into them when I sent him to the garage for beer.

Grabbing my phone from my duffel, I noticed I’d missed a very important text.

Bitch
:
Thanks for the message, Ms. Douglas. I placed my schedule in the folder outside your office.

A wide smile spread across my face. Phase one of Operation Ruin Sinister had been accomplished.

I’d sent her a text earlier under the guise of our flighty campus counselor, Delores Douglas. Everyone knew she constantly screwed up students’ schedules, so I’d hoped Sydney was privy to that information. The anonymous bait text said:

Unknown
:
Good Morning. This is Ms. Delores Douglas. I apologize in advance for this inconvenience. There has been a glitch in the campus server, and if you have received this message, I would appreciate you supplying me a copy of your current semester schedule. Please leave it in the yellow folder in front of my office with your name clearly printed at the top. Thank you.

Hey, I thought that sounded legit. Just to stack the deck against her, I sent the message to a couple cheerleaders and four of my random buddies from campus (non-football related). Someone had mentioned Ms. Douglas was at a seminar this week, so I knew no one would grab the schedules. No one but me.

Hightailing across campus, I made my way to the administration building and peeled off down one of the lesser-used hallways. Ms. Douglas’s office was in an isolated part of the building. Other professors wanted to avoid run-ins with their students, so they forced the guidance counselor to a vacant wing.

Before turning the corner, I heard Sydney’s voice.
What is she still doing here?

“No, Allison, I refuse to DJ on a pink tablecloth. What is this, a baby shower? Should I play
Yo Gabba Gabba
for your sorority sisters?”

Peering around the corner, I could see Sydney on her cell, pacing in front of Ms. Douglas’s door. She walked to the folder I’d set out earlier today and flipped through the other envelopes.

Nosy, Sinister.

“What? And a big hell no, Allison. I will not wear pink and
cream
. You don’t dictate my clothing. … I don’t dress like a boy. …. Who cares if I wear makeup? Isn’t the point for you to get laid, not me? …. I don’t care if you add an extra hundred. I won’t be bought out like some hooker. … Hundred and fifty? Okay, fine, we have a deal.”

I sagged back against the wall, muffling my laughter. If this were an alternate universe, I’d think Sydney and I would get along just fine. Both stubborn with evil tendencies. This thought, which came out of left field, made me shudder. Sydney Porter had declared war by ruining my Porsche. No mercy would be given.

Heels clicked up the hallway, and I hid in a shadowy alcove. After waiting a minute, in the event she was waiting to lunge at me with a vinyl record shard, I rounded the corner toward Ms. Douglas’s office.

My plan was to tear the folder off the wall with the stealth of a ninja, but since it took me three tugs and I ripped a piece of paint up with it, I was pretty sure the scene was much more suave in my mind.

Once in the peaceful familiarity my car—which, thanks to Sinister, now smelled like musty tacos and had stains like a toddler peed all over it—I rummaged through the envelopes until I found one clearly marked Sydney Porter in perfect writing, because that’s what Ms. Douglas (
wink-wink
) asked for.

Dear Ms. Douglas,

Let me start by stating my concern with the lack of security related to classified files at Northern
.

What a turd.

I think it would be wise to reassess your organizational protocol, or if this is truly software-related, reassess your choice of IT contractors. Despite this breach of confidentiality, I will oblige your request with my semester schedule provided below. Please call me when you receive this so we can discuss the university’s shortcomings and my disappointment in greater detail.

Sincerely,

Sydney Porter (Junior – Communications Major)

Schedule is as follows
:

M/W 10-12PM: 306 Graphic Design, Communications Building - Prof. Thomas

M/W 1-3PM: 302 Sexual Evolution, Anthropology Building - Prof. Gratis

Mental note to add that one to my second semester schedule.

T/Th 10-1PM: 304 Geology: Why it Matters (It doesn’t), Natural Science Building - Prof. Cahill

T/Sun 5-9PM: Elective (Don’t ask, don’t tell policy on this one),Communications Building - Prof. Sinister

Prof. Sinister? Don’t ask, don’t tell policy?
I felt like I was in Vegas and had just hit the jackpot. That was my ticket. Today was Tuesday and it was already five. So she’d be in her mystery elective.

Crossing campus, I tried to keep a low profile, but I was stopped twice by teammates and three times by chicks wondering where I was going. I never understood why people asked that when you’re obviously in a hurry. It’s nosy. Sometimes, I want to tell them I just ate a bean burrito and had a gambler coming on (side note: gambler is a sudden urge to use the restroom for an unsavory purpose. It’s a gamble because the odds aren’t great you’re going to make it in time).

In the communications building, I stood in front of the map, scoping out the layout. Classes didn’t usually extend after five at night, so the odds of roaming the halls and finding it were probably good. Unfortunately, when it comes to the suffocating walls of campus, I have little patience, so maybe staring at it some more would help.

“Can I help you?” A sweet voice came from behind me, and I whipped around. A full-figured girl with mousy brown hair and glasses approached my side. Hey, I wasn’t going to judge. I like a little meat in my hands.

“Yes, sugar.” Suddenly, I had a southern accent. Too many Matthew McConaughey movies. I almost started with, “All right, all right, all right.” She blushed, so my confidence in my southern drawl grew. “I know there’s a class here from five to nine, but I don’t have the actual room number. Can you help me out?”

She peered up at the building layout as if she were analyzing a murder scene. Closing one eye, she dragged her finger over the glass-encased map. Next, she swung her eyes to the building’s wall-mounted clock. Then she nodded, a knowing nod, as if the killer had been in front of us the entire time.

“No classes right now,” she said, eyes scanning my body while deep in thought. “But the radio station is at the top level. It runs twenty-four hours.”

“What station?”

“Duh, the campus radio station, KRUZ 97.4.” She said it like I was the last person on earth to hear this news. “It’s a pretty good station. Right now is the Sunday Lane segment. She’s hilarious.”

“Sunday Lane?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you notice half of the girls on campus were braless on Monday? She had a convincing hour-long segment on how bras were created by sadistic men. Men from the same genetic line who pressured Chinese women to bind their feet.”

Now that she mentioned it, I did notice that. Chance did too. He’d managed to turn the air-conditioning up in the Chemistry building just so he could find out who had the best nipples. Bailey Jenkins won ‘hands down’ he’d said.

Giving her a wide smile, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She trembled under the weight of my bicep, and I couldn’t help but let out an evil cackle. “Thank you. Thank you so very much. You’ve just made my day, darlin’.”